


feet of clay

by Tyranno



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Spirits, M/M, moomin doesn't know shrine ettiquette like... AT ALL, summer god!snufkin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-02-09 10:32:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18636355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: The Moomin family has been traveling for months, looking for a patch of the world to call their own. They stumble across a perfect valley; with a beautiful river, luscious grass, good weather--even a little god to bless them.--summer god!snufkin AU. Previously titled"in the woods, somewhere."





	1. Chapter 1

Moomin padded after his parents, limbs heavy with exhaustion and eyes drooping. 

The forest around them was cold, the early morning light filtering through the gaps in the foliage. Mud clung to his paws in stubborn clumps, working between his toes. At every step, the landscape seemed to be against him, catching his paws in roots, hitting him on the nose with a wet slap of leaves. 

“Is it much further, mama?” Moomin grumbled. 

“Not much further, Moomin,” Moominmama turned her head, but could barely see her son for the huge pack she carried. After lunch they had had earlier, she had picked up half of her son’s luggage and carried it, while her husband took the other half. Even relieved of his things, Moomin’s stubby legs were struggling with the distance. 

The family had been travelling for some weeks now, and it seemed to Moomin that they travelled through one identical forest after another for most of that. He wasn’t sure what criteria his parents were using to reject every one, but there always seemed something; the sound of the river was too loud, or perhaps there were too many trees, or too few. Not enough ground for growing vegetables—or too much ground and the grassy plains were boring and lifeless. 

Moomin was sure they were going to reject this valley too. It seemed fairly miserable. 

“Now, here we go Moomin!” Moominpapa called from the front of the small troop, “You’ll see the valley in a moment, then you’ll see how close we are.” 

Moomin barely grunted. 

In a few paces, they passed the last bank of thick trees and the landscape opened up beside them. As the path thinned and pushed them closer to the edge, the full scale of the valley was revealed. The expanse of grass, peppered with the dark peaks of trees, the river that cut through the land like a black knife. 

“Be careful where you step, now, Moomin!” Papa called, as he disappeared around the curve of the rock. 

“I like that there’s a river,” Mama said, “And the trees are nicely space. Perhaps we could have an apple orchard!” 

“Yes, and some pears too,” Papa responded, thoughtfully, “It depends how it looks in the morning.” 

“I have a good feeling about this place,” Mama said. 

Moomin watched the dark valley. It seemed quite gloomy to him—everything was either sleeping or hidden. Nothing broke the still sea of black grass. 

“Look Moomin,” Papa called, “there’s the path down the valley!” 

Moomin couldn’t see where Papa was pointing, so instead scoured the mountainside on his own. Soon he spotted the roughly-cut, steep staircase that led down to the heart of the valley. It was surprisingly short. They would make camp at the base of the mountain, and spend the night. Moomin’s eyes itched with tiredness. 

His parents had stopped at a place where the path widened out, beneath the shallow bough of a cypress tree. 

“Let’s go down already, Mama,” Moomin whined. 

“Just a moment, Moomin,” Mama called back, “We have to leave an offering.” 

Moomin padded forward, stepping onto some grassy rocks to see in front of his parents. Beside the tree, a few, mouse-sized steps led up to a small stone shrine the size of a shoebox. Underneath the thick moss, Moomin caught a glimpse of metal. 

“It’s small,” Moomin said, sourly. 

Mama shrugged off her bag and set it down on the path, picking through it. 

“I think it used to be bigger,” Papa said, amiably, “See behind it—there’s a slab of stone.” 

Moomin lifted his gaze. Behind the shoebox shrine, he could see a stone platform that was about large enough for him to lie down on, growing grass in small, balding patches. There was the stubby ends of wood at each of the four corners, but they had moulded. 

“That structure must have been gone longer than this cypress tree,” Papa patted the trunk of the cypress, “Otherwise this tree would have grown out of shape.” 

“Here it is,” Mama pulled out a small glass jar of dark red jam. 

“That’s Cranberry jam!” Moomin said, ears flicking up and he reached for it, “I thought you said we ran out!” 

Mama lifted the jar out of Moomin’s reach, “We have, dear. This isn’t for us.” 

“Can’t we leave something else?” Moomin protested, “That’s my favourite.” 

“We’ve left jam at all of the other shrines,” Mama said, “We need to show our respect to the local God.” 

Moomin’s stomach grumbled and he scowled, “Why don’t we leave bread? Or cheese? This shrine’s really old—the God doesn’t get anything else, they won’t care!” 

“Don’t be rude, Moomin,” Papa said, “Just because they’re a small God doesn’t mean we should cheat them. Don’t you remember any of my tales?” 

Moomin’s scowl tightened. He really didn’t feel like a recitation of one of Papa’s old stories, as much as he loved them most of the time. He pulled his hand away from the jam jar, and it took a lot more effort than it usually did. 

“Don’t worry, Moomin,” Mama said, patting his head between his small, twitching ears, “when we have a home, I’ll make you as much jam as you like. Any flavour.” 

After a long moment, Moomin said sullenly, “Okay.” 

Mama gave him one last pat, and scraped a chunk of moss from the mouth of the shrine. She reached inside and set the jam jar snugly into the shrine. 

“Should we break the seal, do you think?” Papa asked. 

“No, I think they’ll manage,” Mama said, brushing her knees off. She picked up her luggage and looked down at Moomin, “Come on, dear. I’ll make you some sandwiches before we have a rest.” 

Moomin followed his parents along the narrow track, down the side of the mountain. He couldn’t help but glance back up the track, even as the shrine was hidden by the bulk of the land. 

 

*

 

Moomin woke up when sun glowed through the tent walls. He had only had slept a few hours, and his head felt heavy and tight. Cold had bitten into his legs and surrounded him in a sick, unhappy feeling. Beside him, his parents slept soundly. It was always like this—they seemed to sleep very easily, like they could just flip off a switch. 

Moomin was very hungry. 

He picked through the bag, drawing out cheese and crusty bread. He nibbled at it unhappily. It was scratchy in his mouth, and tasted limp and cold. He thought about the jam up in the shrine. That was what he really wanted—something sweet and easy to eat. 

Before Moomin had even formed a plan in his head, he was unbuttoning the side of the tent and slipping out. The morning air was slicing and cold, the dew sticking to his pale fur. 

Someone else might have eaten it by now. A passing squirrel, maybe a crow. It seemed to Moomin deeply unfair—the God was clearly very unloved, and had probably moved on from this stupid valley to some other haunt with more passing traffic. 

Moomin climbed the rough stairs two at a time. The hunger gave him a strange burst of energy. 

He found the shrine where they had left it. The darkness under the bough of the cypress was thick, the moss that layered the shrine glinting with jewels of morning dew. Moomin crouched ahead of the shrine and reached into its mouth. He frowned, finding the jar disturbed—the lid off and sticky in his paws. 

Inches from his face—the darkness under the cypress tree opened its eyes. 

Moomin reeled back, jam jar still in his paw. Deep brown eyes followed his movements. A dark paw curled around the top of the shrine, long claws glinting. 

Moomin screwed the lid back on the jam jar, holding it close to his chest. 

The darkness lifted its head, catlike.

“It’s mine,” Moomin said, defensively, “I want some. You’ve already eaten half—don’t be greedy.” 

The darkness narrowed its unfathomable eyes. 

Moomin felt a prickle of fear and scrambled to his feet. The hawklike gaze that was attached to his every move only fuelled his fear and he stumbled back. 

“Don’t come near me,” Moomin warned, voice trembling. 

The darkness coalesced into a pair of shoulders, a smooth round head. The eyes were like two knife slits in a black orange, too wide to fit on a normal head. The darkness lifted a paw and took a step onto the dirt path. 

Moomin turned and ran. 

The land seemed to rise against him, every step catching on a tuft of earth and exposed root. Trees lurched towards him as he hurtled forward, bushes catching his sides. He cradled the jar close to him, his neck too taut with fear to glance back at the creature he knew was following him. 

As the land widened away from the sharp turn of the mountain, the path didn’t seem to get any easier, snaking between the thick clutch of trees and under-brush. Everything seemed to be pushing him away from the mountainside, Moomin found himself having to skirt further and further away from the path. 

Fatigue, which he had been able push away for a short while, came clawing back to Moomin. His mind seemed to fizz, unable to connect together. He was crashing through the undergrowth with the grace of a wild boar, his limbs heavy and blunt. Blood roared in his ears. 

The earth beneath him gave way. 

He tried to throw himself back onto solid ground, but that only unbalanced him more. The dry earth crumbled under his weight, scattering like sand. Fear screamed in his ears. He could feel himself slipping. He couldn’t catch anything, branches breaking in his hands. He fell—

—...then, he wasn’t falling any more. 

Moomin was suspended in the blue sky, still and weightless. None of his limbs were connected to the earth, but gravity seemed to have forgotten about him. The jam jar slipped out of his hands and smashed against the mountainside. Broken glass glinted faintly before it disappeared into the dark grass. 

Moomin’s eyes fixed on the dark red smear. He swallowed thickly. 

Black bands stretched across his middle, which were clearly supporting him. He lifted a hand to prod at them, but he was wary of breaking them. They didn’t hurt at all—they didn’t even seem to put any pressure on him—but he felt a warm through their closeness, like a hug. 

Slowly, Moomin saw the cliff move. He was being lifted up, inch by inch. Moomin stayed very still, not wanting to disturb anything. The black bands shifted for a worrying moment, before a great force launched Moomin backwards and he landed in a heap on the mountain path. 

Moomin stood up, swaying slightly. 

He rubbed his stomach. The God had left a streak of black in his fur, which came off in his paws. He lifted his head quickly, but all he saw was shadowed trees, an empty landscape. No eyes watched him from the depths. 

Moomin watched for a moment longer, before hurrying back down the mountain. 

 

*

 

When he told his parents, their eyes went wide. 

“That was so dangerous, Moomin, dear!” Mama said holding her son’s head between her soft paws, “I can’t bear to think what would have happened!” 

“Sorry mama,” Moomin flushed deeply. When he had eaten and reflected on the adventure, he felt very foolish indeed. He couldn’t squirm away from his mother’s disapproving gaze. 

Papa, at least, was distracted. He rubbed his chin and muttered, “Don’t you think this is a good sign, dear?”

“A good sign?” Mama said, ears low. 

“Well—of course I disapprove of Moomin’s carelessness, you should be more careful Moomin,” Papa fixed Moomin with a stern look and his son nodded quickly, “But, the small God saved Moomin, even after he stole his offering. Surely that’s a sign of a good, kind being.” 

Mama’s ears stayed low for a moment, before they flicked upwards and she released her son, “Yes, I suppose so.” 

“It’s very rare for a God to interact with a mortal like this,” Papa said, “You were very lucky, Moomin my lad. Did you make sure to thank the God, maybe say a prayer?” 

Moomin went still. He shook his head. 

Papa’s eyes widened, “You at least left the rest of the offering for them?” 

Moomin thought of the smear of red on the stone and his ears flattened. 

Papa shook his head mournfully, “Oh my, oh my...” 

“You should take better care with your manners, dear,” Mama said, sternly. 

“I’m sorry!” Moomin scratched at the black marks that remained on his belly, “I’ll go first thing tomorrow to apologise.” 

“Don’t go off without us,” Mama said, “I want to thank them too. Now, you should get clean.” 

Moomin nodded quickly. 

The tents they had set up were modest, but workable. Mama worked at a makeshift table, mixing pancake batter. Papa inspected one of his manuscripts, sitting on a boulder. 

Moomin padded to the basin of water Mama had already collected from the river and dipped a cloth into it. He scrubbed at the black marks and they appeared on the cloth, but the marks on him didn’t seem fainted. The more he scrubbed, the blacker the water became. 

“What is this stuff?” Moomin asked. 

Mama set down her cooking and padded over. She pressed her paw to Moomin’s side and rubbed it between her fingers.

Mama inspected her fingers, “It’s ash, dear.” 

“Ash?” 

“Yes, Moomin,” Mama washed her paw in the basin, “It’s tricky to get out of fur, but if you keep scrubbing you can.” 

Moomin dipped the cloth back into basin, “Why would a God be covered in ash?” 

“The valley’s been burned, Moomin. Forest fires, and pretty bad ones,” Papa called from behind his papers, “Not long ago, either, judging by the ruins in the forest. Perhaps a year or two since it happened.” 

Moomin stared at his father. 

Papa glanced back and frowned, “What’s wrong, Moomin?” 

Moomin said nothing. He watched the ash swirl in the basin, dark and stormy. He thought of the smash of deep red against the stone, the long arms of a God that was blackened and burned. He thought of deep brown eyes. 

“Nothing, Papa,” Moomin said, dipping the cloth in the water.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for changing the name! The previous name was really just a kind of placeholder... I prefer this one.   
> also, I am actually about to enter exam season, so updates are bound to be kind of erratic. This is very fun to write, though, and I have it all mentally planned out, so I should still finish it. 
> 
>  
> 
>  **content warnings are in the endnotes to avoid spoilers!** It's nothing that bad, but I wanted to be safe

2.

 

The family hiked back up to the mountainside shrine the next morning. Mama carried a warm, iced cake in her paws, still steaming gently in the chilly dawn. Moomin was still shy of the heights, and walked with his hand curled around the tuft of his mother’s tail, something he hadn’t done since he was very small. 

The shrine was empty. 

Moomin stepped out from behind his mother and scanned the mountainside, but he couldn’t see a pair of enigmatic deep brown eyes in any of the patches of shadow. Nothing moved except the grass, brushed by the breeze. 

“He’s not here!” Moomin yelped. 

“Gods can’t always be seen by us mortals,” Papa said, taking his hat off and bowing his head slightly, “We can’t tell if they’re watching or not.” 

“I know he’s not here,” Moomin said, sullenly. 

Mama knelt by the shrine, the plate in her paws. The mouth of the shrine was too narrow for the width of the plate. She considered it carefully, before simply placing the plate in front of the shrine. She bowed her head, offering a small prayer. 

“Do you think he’ll like the cake?” Moomin asked, ears pricking. 

“I hope so, Moomin,” Mama said, straightening up, “You’ve been calling them ‘him’ for a while now. Are you sure that’s what they’d like that best?” 

Moomin’s snout dipped as he thought. He couldn’t explain what made him so sure, but he nodded. 

“Perhaps you can ask for sure, next time you meet,” Papa set his hat back on his head. 

“Right,” Moomin said. 

 

*

 

When they returned to their campsite, they found a sapling growing between the tents. 

It was half the height of Moomin, its leaves a bright, fresh green and smelled healthy and new. The bark was thin, but strong. Moomin tugged it lightly, just to check if it was real, and it bounced back into place. 

“Oh my!” Mama exclaimed, “I planted those seeds only yesterday.” 

Papa felt one of the apple sapling’s leaves, chuckling, “This is quite a useful God you’ve befriended, Moomin.” 

Moomin couldn’t stop smiling. A jumpy, giddy happiness had overtaken him, and he pressed his paws into his warm cheeks. 

 

*

 

In the afternoon, Mama returned from the mountain with a sticky plate. She set it into the bronze basin they were using a makeshift sink. Moomin’s ears perked up from the noise, and he looked up from where he had been drawing. 

“Did you see him?” Moomin asked, tail flicking like a curious cat’s. 

“No, I’m afraid not,” Mama sat down on a box of luggage. She slipped her pack off her shoulder, “Those steps are mighty steep.” 

“Was the cake all gone?” Papa called from his position a little further away. He clearing grass in a broad circle that he had marked with stones. 

“Yes, Moominpapa,” Mama said, setting her paws on her knees, “It was a shame he didn’t appear, though. I would have liked to ask him his favourite flavours.” 

“I can ask him,” Moomin sat up, “I was thinking of going to see him again.” 

“No Moomin,” Mama shook her head, “It’s too dangerous.” 

Moomin frowned, “I’ll be careful! Please, mama!” 

Mama peered at her son carefully for a long moment. She sighed, “Only if one of us come with you.” 

“I’m not sure that will work, dear,” Papa called. 

“Why not?” Moomin asked, scowl deepening. His tail flicked sharply. 

“Well, Gods tend to be quite particular creatures, Moomin my lad. He’s only appeared to you, and only when you’re alone… I think that might be his choice. You’re likely the only one he wants to see.” 

Although he didn’t show it, Moomin felt a certain thrill at that. It was like he was keeping a very unique and happy secret. He managed to maintain his frown. 

Mama sighed, bringing her son’s attention back to her. 

“Please, mama,” Moomin clasped his hands together, “I’ll be extra careful. Extra-extra careful! And he’ll protect me—he has before!” 

Mama closed her eyes, a small frown forming on her pearly white face. Moomin knew he should be quiet while she thought, but he was filled with such buzzing energy he had to bite his tongue hard to keep himself quiet. 

“On one condition,” Mama said, finally. 

Moomin jumped to his feet, “Of course, of course, anything, Mama!” 

“You aren’t going to the shrine,” Mama said. 

Moomin’s tail dropped back to the grass with a soft thump, “What?! But Mama—”

“He’s God of this whole valley, Moomin,” Mama said, “I’m sure he’ll find you if you’re just down the river.” 

Moomin scowled deeply, paws clenched, but he knew there was no changing her mind. He felt a deep well of disappointment open up in him. He took a moment to temper himself. 

“Alright, Mama,” Moomin said, “I’ll just come back when he doesn’t show up.” 

“Oh, don’t be like that, Moomin,” Mama said, lifting her pack from the floor and passing it to her son, “Here, take this for him. You’ll know what to do—I taught you a few months ago.” 

Moomin accepted the pack and pulled it onto his back. He looked sullenly at the floor. Mama patted his back. 

“Thanks Mama,” Moomin said, plodding on. 

 

*

 

By the time Moomin had reached the thatch of trees further down the river, his mood had improved. The valley really was gorgeous—it was hard to stay angry when surrounded with such sights. The world was a vivid, vibrant green, the undergrowth a deep, secret emerald. Birds weighted down the boughs of trees, bright flecks of colour like fresh paint chips. 

Moomin padded past the treeline, enjoying the earthy coolness that surrounded him. The river here was crisp, the cold water swirling over a bed of even, egg-sized rocks. Moomin found a nice, fallen log and set the pack beside him. 

One after the other, he put his hind paws into the water. The rock bed was slippery, but stable. Dozens of fish passed him in brassy glints. Occasionally the fish slapped against his stumpy legs, a feeling that was surprising and exciting. 

Hesitantly, he slipped his paws under the water. Fresh, sharp cold pierced his fur. He crouched down and splashed his face. He shook water from his face, laughing. 

A familiar pair of brown eyes watched from the log behind him. 

Moomin jumped back, scattering water which flashed like glass shards. He wobbled for a moment but managed to regain his balance before he fell. 

“It’s you!” Moomin yelped, pointing at the God. 

The God gave the impression of smiling, his big eyes crinkling at the corners. Moomin hadn’t managed to get a good look at him before. The being was a different shape to Moomin—he was a string-bean, blackened limbs long and gangly. With his elbows resting on his knobbly knees, his large hands hung empty. 

“I—I, uh, have something for you,” Moomin said, padding over to his pack. 

The God watched him, dark eyes wide and catlike. 

“Actually...” Moomin said, “You’ll have to wash first.” 

The God fixed him with a strange, unreadable look. 

Moomin held out his paws. The God’s eyes flicked down to Moomin’s soft, short arms raised his long hands. Moomin clasped his paw around his, and gently tugged him upwards. The God’s hands were shockingly warm—like touching a heated stove. 

“You’re too tall,” Moomin said and the God knelt, allowing his grubby paws to be dipped into river. Immediately, a black cloud spread through the crystalline water. Moomin massaged the God’s hands, ash floating away down the river. 

As he washed, he frowned. The hands he held felt strange. Under his short paws, he felt lumpy skin, like the gnarled bark of a tree. Warmth thrummed through the God’s veins, hot enough to make Moomin’s paws tingle. He wondered if the God had stripes, or scales, but from the uneven texture of the skin he couldn’t tell. 

The last layer of ash washed away, and Moomin shot upwards. He gasped, paws flying to his mouth. 

The God’s hangs hung limply, still half under water. His pale skin was a mottled with a raw, ugly red, uneven cables of scar tissue marring the exposed skin. Scabs roughened the corners of his hands, the skin disturbed and strange. He was missing two fingernails on each hand. 

The God watched him. He blinked slowly, like a sleepy animal. 

“Sorry!” Moomin felt embarrassment overtake the horror that had struck him and he shrunk back, “I was just—surprised!” 

The God tilted his head, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug. There was no hint of annoyance in his deep eyes. 

“Sorry, one moment,” Moomin said, stepping out of the river. He pulled his sack open and pulled out a small pot of salve. He sat on the log, salve pot balanced on his knee, and pulled the God’s hands towards him. 

The salve smelled strongly of pungent herbs and clumped his fur together, but he applied liberal amounts to his paws. Very gingerly, he patted the mixture into the pale, hairless skin. He spread it tenderly over the harsher parts of the skin, the bark-like scabs and the raw-looking skin, but the God never flinched or shied away. 

When the salve was applied, Moomin screwed the lid back on and retrieved a wad of bandages. He wrapped the God’s hands, very slowly and firmly, the way his mother had taught him. Despite his best efforts, the bandaged limbs came out slightly wonky, the lines of gauze not running quite parallel. 

Finally, Moomin tied off the bandages and released him. 

The God reared up to his full height, taking a few steps away. His feet had been under the river for a long while now and the current had worn away the ash, leaving skin that was much the same as his hands. 

The God flexed his bandaged fingers curiously. 

“Did,” Moomin swallowed thickly, “Did it hurt?” 

As if he had just remembered he was there, the God glanced back at Moomin. The God’s tail—skinny with a tuft at the end just like Moomin’s—flicked in the air. 

“Y-you know...” Moomin gestured at his hands, “When...” 

The God watched him for a long moment. A change came over his dark eyes, some kind of softening. His tail settled, dipping under the surface of the river. Ripples lapped at the back of his calves. An unreadable, deep emotion came over his face. 

The God shook his head. 

Moomin released a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. His shoulders relaxed, “Oh. Good. That’s really good.” 

At the corner of the God’s eyes, the skin crinkled. He shifted his footing, facing Moomin head-on. 

“I’ve got to go,” Moomin said, noting the position of the sun, “I’ll leave you the rest of the bandages and the salve. You’ll be able to do the rest yourself, alright?” 

The God nodded, waving him off with a bandaged hand. 

 

*

 

“Oh, Moomin!” Mama lifted her head as Moomin padded into the camp, “You were a long time. I was just going to head out and look for you. Did you see your God?” 

“Yes, Mama,” Moomin said, cheerily, “I left him with the rest of the medicine you picked out for him. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.” 

Moomin sat down at the table, watching Mama peel apples for a pie. She worked with long, practised motions, shedding the peel as long, ruby-red ribbons. She cut off the last chink of red and sliced the apple in half, coring it absent-mindedly. 

“He’s been very good to us so far,” Papa noted, “I think he noticed I was trying to clear the ground for some foundations earlier, and all the clay earth became dry and loose. It made it mighty easier to clear. I’ll have the foundations down in a jiffy, even if we do end up adding a cellar.” 

“Yes and look at the apple sapling—it will be bearing fruit soon!” Moomin said excitedly. 

“I wonder if there’s anything else we can leave him,” Mama said, dropping apple slices into the pan, “Do you have any ideas, Moomin?” 

Moomin thought hard. Finally, he said, “Maybe some clothes? He’s quite thin—no doubt he gets cold.” 

“Oh, good idea Moomin!” Mama exclaimed, “I have some of your winter coats I can alter for him, as well as a pair of old boots. I’m sure he’d love them.” 

Moomin beamed, resting his chin on his paw. 

 

*

 

“Oh, Moomin, you’re up early.” 

Moomin paused, tail stilling. He turned around, sheepish, and gave his father a weak smile. “Sorry Papa,” He said, “I didn’t want to wake you up.” 

“Nonsense,” Papa stretched, “I was already awake. Besides, I agreed I’d accompany you to the shrine.” 

Moomin nodded, shifting the small bundle on his back. 

The morning sunlight was sharp and pale, the air biting and the chill unkind. Moomin padded across the wet grass, the mud sucking at his paws. Although he had walked all over mountains for most of the past few years, he was still surprised and daunted by their size from level ground. The edge of the valley was austere, the rock-face occasionally interrupted by small flecks of moss, the trees pushed right up to the precipice, so close to the sheer drop that their roots wound in loops around the edge. 

Moomin set off up the mountain path, followed closely by his father. He wasn’t all that disappointed by Papa’s presence—something told him he wouldn’t have seen the valley God either way. Something about their talk the day before had unsettled Moomin in a way he couldn’t quite articulate. He felt like he was being lied to. 

The shrine was just as they’d left it, mossy and silent. Moomin glanced at the daunting slopes of the mountain path, the uneven edges. 

“Remember to say a prayer, Moomin,” Papa said over his shoulder as he padded along the mountain path. 

“Yes, Papa,” Moomin said, kneeling in front of the shrine. He set the package at the foot of the small shrine, not even bothering to try to fit into the tiny stone mouth. 

Moomin’s snout touched the earth and he closed his eyes. He didn’t have anything in particular to pray for, so simply thought, deeply and intently, of good things to come. His paws were flat against the cold mud. 

“Please accept this offering,” Moomin said, softly. 

He straightened up, and found himself alone. 

Moomin scrambled to his feet, frowning, “Papa?” 

No answer. 

A bolt of fear struck through Moomin—Papa had gone in the direction he’d almost fallen down. Moomin stumbled into a jog, “Papa?! Papa!!” 

“Here, Moomin!” Papa’s voice came through the trees. 

Relief dissolved the tension in Moomin’s spine and he picked through the trees towards his father’s voice. Here the land was strange, the trees unhealthy and blackened, a thick layer of grey coating his paws as he walked. In places the ash had mingled with the wet mud to make an unpleasant grey-brown pulp. 

Moomin spotted his father crouching in front of an old metal tank. It was around the side of a suitcase and may have once been red, but the surface bubbled and warped to a rusty brown. Papa’s paw rested on the side of the tank gingerly. 

“Is something wrong?” Moomin asked. 

Papa straightening up. He rubbed his snout tiredly, just below the eyes. His tail was limp, and the tuft disappeared in the new undergrowth. 

“What is this thing?” Moomin asked, poking the metal tank with his paw. A smell rose off it, vinegary and greasy. “What happened to it? Is that… oil?” 

Moomin frowned, confused. He scanned the small clearing, taking in the old ruins and wounds of the earth. The area around the metal tank was levelled, and although new growth had pushed through, the charcoal remains of the trees still broke the undergrowth like exposed ribs. 

“Oh, Moomin,” Papa said, hopelessly. 

“What?” Moomin asked, ears lowering slowly, “What is it?” 

“It’s accelerant,” Papa said, softly, “It means the fire wasn’t natural. Someone started it. Someone tried to burn this valley to a cinder.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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>  **content warning:** brief description of fully healed but severe burn wounds


	3. Chapter 3

3.

In the early morning, the valley was unwelcomingly cold. Moomin was glad for his thick fur, and kept feeling his chilly ears, trying to rub some warmth into them. Stepping out of his sleeping bag had been an unpleasant jolt, but he hadn’t slept well and knew he could stay no longer. He had to see the God.

Grey, thin light filled the valley and the river he walked alongside was black and tumultuous, the river foam flashing like coins in the dark. Wild animals were already awake, making their presence known as crunching leaves and fleeting shadows, heard but not seen.

Moomin’s stomach was churning with unease. He couldn’t stop thinking about that oily metal tank, the old burns that scarred the land. It made him angry and sad in equal measure. He tucked his canary yellow scarf closer to his snout

The forest was even more unwelcoming than the valley. Shadows, impenetrably thick, seemed to slide over each other. Moomin had to walk very slowly, mindful of the slippery rocks. His eyes were near useless in the dark.

He stopped and fished out his lantern from his pack. He should have lit it earlier, he could hardly see his paw in front of his face. He fumbled around the sides until he felt the catch and flicked it on.

Embers spat in the centre of the lantern for a moment as it sputtered to life, before a flame caught and light bloomed between his paws. A fragile shell of orange light spilled around Moomin, lighting up around an arm’s span in any direction.

Somehow, partially illuminated, the forest seemed even wilder. The rocks formed the shapes of crouching monsters, in the corner of his eye the river was a mess of eels. Moomin’s eyes strained towards the pillars of trees, trying to make out shapes. Everything seemed an enemy.

“H-Hello?” Moomin called, lifting the lantern.

Something in the treetops—but as Moomin swung the lantern towards it, all he could see was the underside of leaves, the shadows sharp and black. A bird flicked above it, visible and gone between the blink of an eye.

Moomin breathed shakily.

A hand landed on his shoulder.

Moomin shrieked, leaping around. Light flashed over tree branches, dazzling the surface of the river. Moomin’s paw found mossy rocks and slipped—but something snatched him by his bag strap to steady him.

It took a few moments, but Moomin eventually calmed down enough to right himself, and turned around properly.

The God watched him, head tilted. He released his grip on Moomin’s bag strap. The God was dressed in the clothes Mama had left for him, a tunic-like smock and a broad, scarecrow-hat that shadowed his face. His boots were balanced lightly on the rocks, like a bird about to take flight. Every other inch of him was covered in bandages.

“Thank you,” Moomin said, “You’re very good at that. Stopping me from falling over, I mean.”

The God gestured to his lantern.

Moomin hesitated. It was very dark—he didn’t want to give it up. He had no reason to distrust the God, but… He handed it over.

The God flipped the lantern over and wrapped a skeletal hand around the plastic top, snapping it upwards. The flame inside rose an inch, clicking into place. It produced ten times as much light, reflecting in his eyes as deep pools.

Moomin accepted the lantern back, in awe, “I didn’t know you knew how to use these! I didn’t even realise how dim it was, Papa usually carries the lantern.”

The God’s eyes crinkled at the edges.

Moomin lifted the lantern higher. The forest looked much nicer in the light, the shadows still long, but the ground empty of imagined monsters. Moomin led the way, to the log that they had sat on the other day.

“I brought some paper and writing things,” Moomin sat down on the log and patted the empty space for the God to sit beside him, “Can you write?”

The God followed him, sitting down on the wood.

Moomin took out a big wad of paper and filled a fountain pen carefully before putting the ink bottle back in his bag. He passed the paper and the full pen to the God, who rested them on his knobbly knees.

Moomin hesitated with the question hovering on his tongue.

The God watched him patiently, but Moomin’s stomach churched. It felt like there was a pressure building in his chest. _Who burned the forest?_ It refused to come out. It just teetered at the back of his throat.

It was just that the God looked at him so expectantly, almost excitedly. And if Moomin asked, it was sure to upset him.

“Do you have a name?” Moomin asked instead, “I don’t know what to call you. We looked on your shrine, but there wasn’t anything.”

The God considered the question. He held the pen in his fist and wrote in large, unpractised letters: _Snufkin._

“Snuf—Snufkin?” Moomin said, reading upside down.

The God nodded.

“What a nice name!” Moomin said, “I really like it! How it suits you!”

Snufkin closed his eyes slowly like a happy cat.

“I’m Moomin,” Moomin said, “With two O’s—yes that’s right.”

Snufkin admired the name he’d written, nodding. _Suits you_ , He wrote next to it.

“Thank you,” Moomin said, “My Mama wanted me to ask, is there any other offering you’d like?”

Snufkin considered that for such a long time that Moomin was just wondering if he should ask again before Snufkin began to write something. He quickly scratched it out, however, and instead wrote: _are you staying?_

Moomin jolted, “Well, yes, we thought that this valley was nice—but should we have asked you first? I mean it’s your valley—oh dear we haven’t invited ourselves in have we, that’s terribly rude, I—”

A bandaged hand touched Moomin’s knee, startling him. Snufkin turned around the paper, to show he had written: _I want you to stay._

Moomin flushed.

Snufkin began to write again, _tell me about your family._

Moomin launched happily into a long-winded explanation of his family history. He talked about his paternal grandmother, who had been a chemist and a fiendishly good cook, who had met Moomin’s grandfather on a fishing drip while searching for a special ingredient for a potion. Moomin admitted he didn’t know much about his father’s parents, but he did know a lot about his father’s adventures prior to meeting his mother, the beasts he had met, the Gods he had dined with.

He talked about how they had lived in their grandmother’s old house while Moomin was too small to travel, and how cold and dusty and hard to clean it had been, the kitchen stained with chemicals and the waterworks permanently on the blink. Moomin talked about the other valleys they had visited.

This seemed to interest Snufkin the most. If he had had ears like Moomin, they would be pricked.

Moomin talked about the stunning, huge lake they first visited, still as a mirror and gleaming like a tray of cut diamonds. He talked about the thick emerald forest, the dense and frightening groves that never stopped rustling, but no animal was ever seen. He talked about a cavern they passed through that was so irregular and narrow it looked like it had been carved by a colossal, serrated knife into the skin of the world.

Half way through describing a pack of wolves that had hounded them for a few weeks, Moomin noticed how still Snufkin had become how attentive his gaze. There was something tense in him.

“But of course, nothing compared to your valley!” Moomin said in a tone he hoped would placate him, “Yours is by far the prettiest and most serene.”

Snufkin’s tail flicked in annoyance, and, if anything, his mood seemed to sour further. He began to shuffle his papers, wet ink smearing his bandages.

“Sorry,” Moomin said, although for what he wasn’t sure.

Snufkin shook his head, tail twitching.

“I brought an offering,” Moomin said, pulling out two lovely round apples from his bag, “Although I suppose these were originally yours. Do you want one?”

Snufkin accepted the apple, rolling it between his narrow hands.

Moomin watched him carefully. This was another thing he had been curious about—the God clearly ate, because he had left only smears of the cake Mama had cooked for him—but Moomin had never seen him open his mouth.

Snufkin pulled a few bandages away—and slipped the apple inside.

Moomin would swear he hadn’t blinked. He hadn’t. But between one moment and the next, the apple had passed between the bandages and winked out of existence.

“Here, eat this one too!” Moomin thrust his apple at Snufkin.

Perplexed, Snufkin ate that one. There was no flash of teeth, no jaw movement. It happened the same way—as if the apple had simply disappeared.

“You don’t have a mouth!” Moomin asked, “Is that why you can’t speak?”

Snufkin started. He picked up his papers again, poised to write. He hesitated and wrote: _I can speak._

Moomin beamed at him, “Then why don’t you? I want you hear your voice!”

A deep well spread from where the nib rested on Snufkin’s papers. He lifted the pen, tail flicking like a hunting cat. He wrote: _Most people don’t like it._

Moomin’s heart clenched.

“I want to hear it!” Moomin insisted, “Please, talk to me.”

Snufkin was still for a moment, and Moomin thought he might be refused. But the God gathered his papers together, setting them aside along with the carefully capped pen. He pressed his bandaged fingers to where his mouth should be, shyly.

“ **Hello** ,” Snufkin said.

His voice was very strange indeed. It was as if something metal was struck smartly, the sounds overlapping and sliding together. At first, it was hard for Moomin to even figure out what the God had said. The voice was cold and strange and unnerving.

“I love it! Your voice is like the chiming of bells,” Moomin grasped Snufkin’s hands tightly. They were extra warm between his paws, as if the whole of the God’s body was blushing, “Say my name!”

“ **Moomin,** ” Snufkin said. If he had a mouth like Moomin, it would have been smiling.

 

*

 

Moomin was yawning loudly by the time he was wandering out of the forest, having finished talking with Snufkin for the moment. It was already midday, and Moomin was hungry. He walked through the wet grass, back up the river to where his mother was cooking.

“Oh, hello Moomin,” Mama said, brightly, “I have just finished making stew. I’m afraid cooking over a fire has its limits—I can’t wait to bake properly.”

“I’m sure it’ll be soon, Mama,” Moomin said, through another big yawn. He perched on the edge of a small chair.

“I’m glad you brought a scarf with you,” Mama said, “It’s getting mighty cold in the valley.”

Papa padded up to the main tent, sitting down heavily on a chair.

“Hello dear,” Moomin lifted the cauldron from the fire and set it onto a tree stump so she could serve it, “How goes the building?”

“Good, good, Mama,” Papa said, accepting a bowl of stew, “I should be able to put up the scaffolding soon. We’ll have a house in no time.”

“That’s good to hear,” Mama said, passing a bowl of soup to Moomin, “I had a letter from Snorkmaiden earlier—Apparently she and a few others are looking for a new place as well. I told them this valley had more than enough room.”

“It will be nice to have some neighbours,” Papa said, “And while it’s good to have a God for a friend, Moomin will probably want some less... divine friends sometimes.”

Mama chuckled.

Suddenly, Moomin was up, out of his chair, pointing across the plains, “Look, Mama! Snufkin!”

Mama and Papa followed where he was pointing.

Across the rise of the land, Snufkin was padding towards them. Cut out against the sky, he looked strange and thin, hands tucked deep into his pockets, tail around his boots and the brim of his hat lowered.

“Is that him?” Papa whispered excitedly.

“Oh my,” Mama whispered back.

Moomin set his stew down. “Snufkin!” He called, “Do you want some stew?”

Snufkin shook his head, tail flicking. He turned wordlessly, heading towards the foundations of their soon-to-be house.

The Moomintrolls followed the God at a cautious distance. Moomin wanted to run up to him, but something was stopping him. When they reached the layout for their house, Papa was still frowning, adjusting the spectacles that rested on his snout.

Snufkin knelt by the edges of the cut out basement, before straightening up and taking a few steps only to kneel again. He continued around the whole of the circular foundations, until he was back where he started.

The God spread his arms out, palms facing the earth. He breathed deeply, and threw his arms upwards.

Earth split, branches and trunks climbing out of the mud like misshapen animals, stretching upwards. The sound was terrifying—splitting, crunching, tearing—as the trees shoved earth aside and pierced the sky, twisting around each other, black trunks glistening with newness.

Just as suddenly as it had begun, the job was finished, the living monolith towering over them. Leaves unfurled silently.

“Our house...” Mama said, “You built us a house!” Snufkin nodded, stiffly.

“ **It won’t last,** ” Snufkin said, “ **You can build around it. But… there is a terrible storm coming. Your tents will not survive**.”

His voice rang out across the valley like a struck gong. It left a slight fizzing in the gathered Moomintrolls’ ears, and in the silence there was a startling stillness, like passing under a waterfall and finding yourself in the quiet cave behind it.

“Thank you so much, Snufkin!” Moomin beamed.

Snufkin regarded him evenly. His tail rose slightly. Without answering, Snufkin turned and padded away.

Papa watched him go. Once the surprise had abated, his earlier pensive expression returned. He rubbed his chin.

“What is it dear?” Mama asked.

“Nothing, nothing,” Papa hummed lowly, “Only… did that God seem familiar to you? He reminds me of someone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> sorry that I didnt answer the comments on the last chapter. I read and appreciated every one, but I am v busy at the moment. I will respond to them in the morning. Love you all xx


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late posting again... Exams, still. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for all the sweet comments, I read every one.

4.

The storm hit in the late morning.

Mama had pulled down the tents and rolled them into long sausages. Every one of their belongings fit into the living tower, but the room became crowded and cramped. When her family had piled in along with the trunks, she and Papa used tarp which had covered the tents and nailed it into the gaping doorway. Then all they had left to do was sit in the relative darkness and wait.

First, it was only a drizzle.

Rain fell steadily, thrashing the trees that hid them from the storm. It hissed across the door frame, attacking the so fiercely so hard it groaned. The tree trunks creaked against each other, a deep, resonating sound like glaciers cracking.

The lantern flickered and bloomed across the suitcases. The three Moomintrolls sat together, encircled by luggage, closed in on all sides. Moomin clasped the glass of the lantern between his paws, briefly throwing the tower into darkness. He frightened himself, releasing the lantern quickly.

Mama passed around a bundle of sandwiches she had prepared earlier. The bread was soft and chilled.

Clouds gathered outside and what little light filtered through the gaps in the tree trunks dimmed and faded, until it was only the weak orange light of the lantern. Water ran down the insides of the tree trunks, dripping in some hidden place, a blunter sound than the constant hissing of rain.

Papa suggested they should sleep. It was impossible to know what time it was, but there was nothing else to do. The three of them pulled blankets from their luggage and bundled up, the lantern like firepit of cooling embers.

Rain roared on and on.

It was an aggressive din. The noise seemed to go around and around, a constant thrashing that seemed, like a gigantic wave, to grow and grow without ever cresting.

“Don’t worry, Moomin, my lad,” Papa said, as if he could feel his son’s discomfort in the dark, “Very soon we’ll have our own house and we won’t have to suffer the elements like this any more.”

Moomin made an agreeable noise, shifting around to find his tail and tuck it much closer to his body.

Cold, which had seeped through the walls, seemed suddenly unbearable. Moomin curled into a tighter ball, arranging his blankets as much as he could without exposing too much of himself to the freezing air. The ground felt very hard and frozen.

Mama breathed onto her hands. Her breath hung in the air as a pale cloud. Her ears twitched and she settled back down.

Noise that wasn’t the rain reached Moomin’s ears.

A shuffling. Moomin raised his head, trying to keep the blankets with him. Something was moving outside.

Snufkin! Moomin bolted upright—had the God been caught in the rain? Was he dreadfully cold? He fumbled around, trying to detach himself from his cocoon of blankets before movement caught his eye.

Something pushed under the makeshift door. It was quickly joined by another thing.

Moomin’s night vision was very poor. The shapes seemed strange, illuminated only very faintly by the grey light that came from under the door. He saw the silhouettes of four legs as the creatures shifted around. Thin legs, the brush of a broad tail.

Moomin snatched up the lantern.

Two wolves stood in front of the door. A third scratched at the bottom of the door, before sliding under it and regarding the Moomintrolls absently.

Moomin let out a muffled shriek. His parents perked up immediately, sitting up. Papa pressed his paws to his snout in silent horror.

The wolves stared back at them.

“Wolves!” Moomin exclaimed, tail curling up, “We need to scare them off!”

“If only I had my shotgun,” Papa said, “I could shoot the trees and make such a noise they would scatter.”

“Nonsense,” Mama said, settling back down, “Everyone, let’s calm down. They don’t mean any harm.”

“You don’t know that!” Moomin hissed back.

More wolves pushed through the doorway, nudging the first wolves with their noses. The wolves padded away from the door. Their ears seemed to work independent of the rest of them, swivelling seemingly at random. The animals had such grace to them, walking in a rolling lope, smooth as a ball rolling.

“Look at their body language, dear,” Mama said, “Their ears are up, their tails are low, there’s no tension in them. They aren’t hunting.”

A wolf with a black snout padded past Mama as if to prove her words. It wagged its tail absently. The animals had grey-brown fur that gave way to a milky-white belly, their triangular ears a soft ginger.

The wolf flopped down at Mama’s feet and began to chew its foot.

Moomin watched with wide eyes as more wolves began to push through the doorway. They shook the rain from their thick coats and leaped easily onto the luggage stacks which shook worryingly at their weight. They were even larger than Moomin had imagined, if they rose onto their hind legs they would be twice the height of Papa. But Mama was right—they showed absolutely no interest in them. They didn’t even seem to notice the Moomins where there.

As more and more of the pack squeezed their way inside, Moomin found himself surrounded by hulking animals. The smell of wet dog became quickly overwhelming.

One animal flopped down so close to Moomin it bashed his snout with its heavy side. Moomin shrunk away, but the wolf didn’t seem to mind. It yawned, jaw snapping open impossibly wide, ears pinned to its neck, before it tucked its snout between its front paws.

Moomin stretched out a paw, hesitated, and finally pushed into the dappled grey fur that lined the wolf’s spine. Once he passed the scratchy guard hairs, he felt the warm cushion of inner fur. He rubbed at it. The wolf’s muscles twitched under his paws and the animal’s nose flicked into the air. Moomin pulled his paw back quickly.

What was also quickly noticeable was the warmth the animals brought with them. Packed in by the wolves, Moomin felt himself relax. The cold was banished. Once he was used to the smell, he even enjoyed their company. They snorted and snuffled in their sleep.

Moomin slept very well, after that.

 

*

 

Moomin was woken up when one of the wolves stepped on his tail.

He woke up all at once, found himself sitting up and slightly dazed. The wolf in question watched him, curious. Its triangular ears were pointed towards him. It had deep black facial markings that made it look surprised, or perhaps concerned.

Moomin leaned forward and tried to pull at the heavy paw planted on the end of his tail. The wolf sniffed at his hand and licked it.

Moomin laughed. The tongue was rough and pulled out a few strands of fur. That tongue was used to pull meat from bone, Moomin knew, but he couldn’t help but laugh at the strange feeling. The wolf shifted its stance, releasing Moomin’s tail. Moomin tucked his tail under him, warm under the blankets. The wolf stepped over him and padded away, tail swinging amiably.

It was early morning and the wolves were filtering out the tower. At some point, the rain had stopped and the air was still and damp.

“Good morning Moomin,” Mama said. She was kneeling in front of the unlit camp hob.

“Good morning Mama,” Moomin rubbed his eyes.

“What a useful friend you have, Moomin,” Papa said, from behind a big book he was reading.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s Snufkin’s doing, surely,” Papa said, “He sent in the wolf pack to keep us warm. That’s why they were so tame.”

“Wow,” Moomin said, shuffling closer to his parents. Warmth filled his chest. “Wow.”

“It’s lucky to find a God who cares so deeply about his valley’s inhabitants.”

Moomin watched his mother light the hob with a long match. The small flame caught the gas and bloomed white for a moment, before lowering to a licking yellow. The burst of light heat was like the warmth of an exhale.

Moomin felt the happy feeling in his chest fade a little. He clasped his hands together and his tail twitched.

“What’s wrong, Moomin?” Papa asked.

Moomin was thinking of the fire-warped metal. He was thinking of the smell of burned oil hanging in the air. He swallowed thickly, “Papa… whoever set the fire...”

Papa glanced up.

“If they were inhabitants Snufkin would have treated them well,” Moomin said, quickly, “Even if they were just passing through. I know he would have. So why—why would they… it doesn’t make sense.”

Papa watched his son through his spectacles for a long moment, before he closed his book. “Moomin...” He started, gently.

“They had to have a reason,” Moomin insisted, “They wouldn’t do it without one, would they?”

Papa’s ears lowered slowly. He frowned, sadly.

Mama set the pan on the stove, dropping a large slice of butter into it. It began sizzling immediately. She had already prepared the batter, which dropped into the pan in one long, thick blob.

“Would they?” Moomin asked, hopelessly.

“Moomin...” Papa paused, “Snufkin is a God. Many don’t know they feel pain like we do. Perhaps… well, they might have done it without thinking. In order to steal apples from the orchard or fish without getting permission.”

Moomin stared at him, “But—how?! How can...”

“Moomin, my dear,” Mama said, “They likely didn’t understand him. When you don’t understand someone, you can hurt them quite badly without even meaning to.”

Moomin pressed his paws to his mouth.

Mama poked the edge of the cooking pancake with her spatula, testing how solid it was. The air was spiced with cinnamon and the smell of fresh pancakes. They steamed gently, pale curls of vapour in the air. She pushed the spatula under the pancake and flipped it over with practised ease.

When it was cooked, Mama slid the pancake onto a plate and passed it to Moomin.

Moomin spread syrup on the pancake absently. His heart had sunk in his chest. The wolf pack had left a deep smell of wet dog throughout the tower. Wolf fur prickled under his paws. Moomin cut up the pancake and ate it.

 

*

 

Moomin wandered off late morning, after helping his parents move the luggage back to their previous camp site.

The living tower had already begun to weaken, the thick dark trunks shrinking to wrist-sized bars. It looked like the dark ribcage of some gigantic fish. The tops of the trees could no longer support its own weight and they sagged, leaning this way or that.

Rain made the valley new again. It felt like it had washed away a layer of sludge and dust. The flowers looked freshly painted, the birdsong stronger and sharper. Moomin waited at the riverside for a long while, but nobody came. The bank was sticky with rainwater, sucking at Moomin’s paws.

He had been wandering absently through the forest when he heard a high noise, like a whine.

Moomin listened for a moment, before he heard it again. He padded after in the direction. When he pushed through the last bracket of trees and found himself in a clearing, he spotted it.

It was a young buck, half-sitting half-standing against the stone side of a rocky hill. His antlers were scraping dully against the stone, and his hindquarters were covered in a thick layer of dust and mud. He startled when he saw Moomin, hooves slipping across the wet grass, but he was unable to pull himself to his feet.

Moomin’s eyes followed the steep slope of the animal’s back and gasped. He was trapped under a heavy slab of rock, presumably loosened by the storm.

Before he knew what he was doing, Moomin was sprinting through the forest, back to the camp and across the valley. He was out of breath by the time he reached the mountainside, but he still tried his best to hurry up the steep steps.

“Snufkin!” Moomin yelled, “Snufkin!”

Snufkin stepped out from under the cypress tree, “Oh, hello Moomin. Did you sleep well?”

“No time for that now,” Moomin snatched his hand and pulled him down the mountainside.

The journey back was a lot slower, and Moomin was very worn when they returned to the clearing, but he finally let go of Snufkin’s hand to point at the deer.

“He’s hurt,” Moomin said, desperately.

The deer stopped struggling. His sharp black hooves rested on the dusty earth, his legs shaking slightly. His spine was at an awkward angle, and his back legs were very still. Brown fur was crusted dark.

“ **I’m sorry you had to see this, Moomin,** ” Snufkin said, his strange voice low.

“Don’t worry,” Moomin said, “I’m sure you can make it all better.”

Snufkin frowned and stepped forward. The deer lifted his head towards him, snorting softly. Snufkin pressed a hand between the deer’s antlers.

Slowly, very slowly, the deer sagged. Its front legs folded neatly, and its head was set down on the dust.

Snufkin stepped away.

Moomin waited. He waited for the rock to dematerialise, to shift. He waited for the deer to stand up and bounce around on new legs. But nothing in the clearing moved. And the deer was very still.

“Snufkin,” Moomin said, hesitantly, “He’s not getting up.”

“ **I can’t heal, Moomin** ,” Snufkin said, gently, “ **This was all I could do.** ”

“What?” Moomin spluttered.

Snufkin took a step away from him, head lowered.

“You killed him?” Moomin said, voice shrill, “But—he was fine!”

Snufkin tilted his head down. The brim of his hat hid his dark, unnatural eyes.

“We could have done something!” Moomin snapped, “How could you?”

“ **It was for the wolves, too,** ” Snufkin protested, “ **They couldn’t hunt last night, so I left them this.** ”

Moomin tensed, “You knew?! And you left him like that?!”

Snufkin shifted away, again, his tail curling.

Moomin thought, desperately, of the docile wolves that had slept alongside them, tame as big lap-dogs. He couldn’t quite reconcile those puppy-like animals with ones that would prey on such a defenceless animal. He had the bizarre idea that Snufkin was making excuses.

“You made the wolves tame,” Moomin snapped, “Why couldn’t you make this deer tame—then we could have looked after him ourselves since you didn’t want to.”

“ **It doesn’t work like that,** ” Snufkin said, long fingers pulling the brim of his hat lower.

The God’s voice was irritating. The sounds were tensed and sharp, like a squealing spring, an effort to decipher. It felt like needles in Moomin’s ears, scratching and scratching.

“Why not?!” Moomin demanded.

“ **I have to constantly keep them tame, I have to concentrate,** ” Snufkin said, “ **I can’t leave them, I have to stay close.**”

“What does that matter?” Moomin snapped, “You can’t _go_ anywhere!”

Snufkin flinched, as if he’d been struck.

The God lifted his head, and Moomin saw dark eyes, wet with tears.

Moomin stared at him. A coldness spread through his chest, “Snufkin, I—...”

But Snufkin stepped backwards into the shadows and vanished.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Spring Song](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19866652) by [CollieWolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollieWolf/pseuds/CollieWolf)




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